


Pick a kit.  Bring your man.

by Ealasaid



Category: 1917 (Movie 2019)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Character Study, Gen, Groundhog Day, Guilt, Time Loop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-22
Updated: 2020-04-22
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:47:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23791036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ealasaid/pseuds/Ealasaid
Summary: Tom Blake's POV of chapters 4 & 5 of WafflesRisa's "Pick a man. Bring your kit."Or: the worst day of a poor bean's life.
Relationships: Tom Blake & William Schofield
Comments: 33
Kudos: 72





	Pick a kit.  Bring your man.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WafflesRisa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WafflesRisa/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Pick a man. Bring your kit.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22682791) by [WafflesRisa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WafflesRisa/pseuds/WafflesRisa). 



> This has been HAUNTING ME FOR WEEKS. Hopefully, now that I've released it into the wild, I can be freeeeeeeee!
> 
> Obviously has spoilers for chapters 4 and 5 of PAMBYK. Pretty much all dialogue taken from that as well! The only thing that's really mine is Tom's inner sass.

“I’ve been on this mission before,” Sco says. 

The words make no sense to Tom. Sco says it in the sort of matter-of-fact, doomed voice that he uses for only the most dire of situations -- situations that, to Tom’s knowledge, have never turned out nearly as bad as Sco has predicted they will be. 

“Er,” he says. “What do you mean?” Such an odd thing for him to say. Sco must be misremembering, thinking of an old bad dream . . . Maybe Tom can talk Sco around, remind him what’s real?

“I’ve done this before.  _ We’ve _ done this before,” Sco hastens to add. His words keep coming, faster and more rapidly until they hardly make any sense. “We went on the mission together, I completed it, saved your brother. Then I fell asleep against a tree and woke up next to you back there.”

Sco catches himself and stops, scarcely breathing. He has the expression of someone who has just parted with a great secret. The way he looks at Tom -- it’s a look that is mostly despair, shot through with -- hope? 

Hope that Tom will -- what?

\-- and just a moment. What the  _ hell? _ What the hell is going on? Why would Sco say such things -- why would he pull this shite  _ now, _ when Joe’s life is on the line? 

Oh, god, Tom thinks, horrified. No wonder Sco mentioned he wasn’t alright at the rear of the line-- he was warning Tom he’d gone completely nutters.

“This is unlike you, Sco,” Tom says, working desperately to keep his voice soft and soothing. That’s what you do with nervous animals, right? And the way Sco is looking at him -- like a horse, about to bolt. Watching Sco’s face close off, Tom realises he didn’t quite manage to keep the hurt out of his voice, and so he doesn’t bother masking it so much as he goes on now that that’s out of the bag. “If this is a joke, it isn’t funny. And I’ve never known you to be cruel.”

“No -- I’m telling the truth -- Blake, you’ve got to believe me!” Sco is bordering on desperate now, but Tom can’t deal with this. If this is shellshock -- well, Tom understands, Sco was at the Somme and all -- but he can’t risk catching it, that wild hysteria, not now. Not while Joe is depending on him to see this through!

“Stop it, it’s not funny,” Tom says, fear turning into frustration. He pulls away and stubbornly sets himself up against the ladder, ready to go over. “We’ll talk about it later. Let’s go -- keep your head down.”

“For goodness’ sake -- there’s no need to keep our heads down because I’ve done this before and there’s no Hun out there --” Tom doesn’t even have time to comment on this before Sco is scrambling up the ladder. “Look, I’ll prove it to you!” he says, and stands at the top. He spreads his arms out as though to invite the German to shoot him down and oh, God, oh _God,_ _what_ is Sco _doing_ he needs to _get down --_ “See?”

“Get down from there -- get down!” Tom can’t keep the terror out of his voice, that shrillness that he loathes because it marks him as still young compared to everyone else. He hauls himself halfway up and scrabbles at Sco’s boots, trying to get hold of them so he can  _ yank them out from under him and get Sco down. _ His voice only gets shriller when he can’t seem to manage it. “Sco, you reckless bastard! Get down!”

Sco pauses for a moment, then takes a minute step back as Tom’s efforts become more frantic. Tom almost doesn’t hear when he starts talking again. “--I’ve been on this mission before,” Tom hears. Sco’s voice turns desperate and that’s what really catches his attention. “Please believe me.”

Tom looks up. It’s miraculous that no one has shot Sco down yet; no guns are firing, no quiet and singular shots from a sniper. He sees the conviction on Sco’s face, the mad hope that Tom will respond -- how?

Tom lets go of the ladder as realisation  _ slams _ into him. He didn’t know it could hurt this much, watching your friends get lost to you. “Oh, God,” he can’t stop himself from saying. Oh, God. “You’ve actually lost it.” The despair that overwhelms him is unsupportable. He feels tears spring to his eyes and is horribly ashamed. How can he do this without Sco? Sco has been his  _ best friend, _ he’s the one Tom can count on, but now he can’t -- oh god, what is Tom going to do. Oh God. “I’ve got to -- is there -- can you spare one of your men --”

He turns to the Lieutenant, but it’s futile. The man is cruelly cutting as he says, “No luck -- not sending one of mine on this fucking death march. You want someone else, you go back to General Erinmore.” He tips the entirety of the flask out at Tom’s feet as the final, cold nail through the heart. 

Tom is reeling from the shock, this horrible letdown. He’s always,  _ always _ been able to count on Sco, Goddamnit! Why, why has Sco lost it  _ now? _ Why couldn’t he have held on a little longer? Oh, God -- Joe’s going to die, isn’t he? If Tom doesn’t make it, he’ll die, and Tom didn’t appreciate the comfort of having Sco with him as a backup in case Tom didn’t make it but  _ now -- _

“Blake -- please --” he hears, but he doesn’t look -- “Blake, look at me. LOOK AT ME!”

Tom senses the stillness of the men all up the line. He turns and looks, slowly.

He sees as Sco evaluates Tom’s expression and then reins it all in. Sco pulls in every bit of emotion he’s got and hides it away, crafting a veneer of calm, of gentle coaxing, to cover it. “Blake,” he says, clearly making the effort, but also clearly lying through his teeth -- “I’ve not gone insane, I swear. I swear to you on my daughters’ lives.”

This knocks the breath out of Tom -- Sco never brings them up,  _ never -- _

“I’m not making this up! You can’t go with someone else, you’ve got to come with me. That’s the only way you’ll survive -- ” Tom hears the desperation, again, but it only serves to fuel the hysteria he feels in himself right now “-- and I’ve got to save you. I’ve got to protect you, Blake. Now take my hand and let’s go! Please!”

Tom can’t bring himself to take Sco’s hand, or even to take in what Sco is saying. He doesn’t know what has possessed his friend, but this? This isn’t Sco. Sco wouldn’t do this. 

Tom has never been so scared in his  _ life. _

Tom doesn’t know how long he stares at the outstretched hand, frozen with the decision in front of him. Tom must go. Sco is determined to go with him, but Sco has  _ absolutely lost his fucking mind. _ Tom shouldn’t even let him come, he should knock him over the head and leave him with fucking Leslie, for Chrissakes --

Sco sits up, suddenly, swearing. As if Tom needed any more proof this wasn’t his friend! Sco covers his face with his hands as the sound of planes --two, Tom sees when he glances up -- roars overhead. Sco is shaking, as twitchy and nerveless as any truly shell-shocked man Tom has ever seen. 

And then he gets up.

“I’m going, Blake,” Sco says, and turns away. He starts walking across No Man’s Land.

Tom comes to a terrible realisation. Yes, Sco is mad. He has gone horribly, awfully mad. And he is going to get himself killed. He isn’t even taking cover, nor is he watching himself as he should -- and Tom can’t, he can’t, this is his  _ best friend _ \--

Fine! Fine. Fine, Tom will go along with it for now. He sends the most desperate prayer he’s ever sent to God that this will not be a terrible mistake -- that he can trust Sco enough to get them both to the 2nd Devons, that Sco is only a  _ little _ insane --

Oh, who is Tom kidding? He can’t not take Sco. This isn’t even a choice, not with Leslie chortling in horrible amusement as he ambles away down the trench behind Tom.

He hauls himself up the ladder and scrambles after Sco. “Poor sod,” someone says behind him, and Tom feels the appropriateness of the sentiment as a bitter blow. He is well and truly fucked.

Sco has stopped, waiting -- he doesn’t hide his relief as Tom comes up to him. He reaches out like a drowning man for land, but Tom shies away from it -- it still hurts too much. The strange grief that overtakes Sco’s expression next hurts Tom even more.

“Let’s go, then,” Tom says roughly, hearing his voice catch. He clears his throat. 

Sco’s face is closed off, back to the neutrality of when they first met. “This way,” he says, and starts to run.

“Wait -- Sco!” Too late. He’s off like a fucking rabbit, damn him! Blake is  _ not meant _ for sprinting, not even four months in the Army has changed that -- damn it, damn it, damn it. It’s the chant that drums through his mind with his feet as he follows in Sco’s steps.

Tom will say this for Sco -- mad or not, he gets them across the stinking swamp by way of a remarkably sure path. Though Tom is often distracted by some new and horrific sight and slips frequently as a result, he never truly loses his balance. Meanwhile, Sco seems to compensate with each step, anticipating the precise addition to his velocity that the frictionless mud causes, adjusting for it seamlessly. It’s almost as though he’s done this before --

Tom realises what he just thought, and feels disquieted. He concentrates on running and tries not to be too embarrassed by his wheezing -- most of that’s from the stench, anyway. 

He only partly sees as Sco drops into the trench ahead of them, it’s that quick. Sco reaches up and grasps at Tom’s ankle, fluidly tugging him forward -- Tom yelps as he slips right down, throwing out his arms for balance -- Sco catches and steadies him the instant his feet touch the duckboards. Tom can hardly believe it. It’s like they’re acrobats, and they’re in the circus he saw when he was younger -- that’s how precise it is.

“Listen,” Sco says, squeezing Tom’s shoulder hard enough that he feels the bones in Sco’s hand. His voice is tight. When Tom looks over at him, he sees Sco is pale, paler than Tom has ever seen. “There’s going to be a dead end at the end of the comms trench. But we’ll go down the line trench and the way forward is through the underground barracks.”

“Right,” Tom says, making the effort to ensure that the doubt he’s feeling is thoroughly expressed -- if this were Joe, Tom would have thoroughly excoriated him. 

Sco flinches minutely but doesn’t stop speaking. “There’s a tripwire in the storeroom at the back of the barracks,” he says quickly, as though the more information he imparts the more Tom will trust what he says. “If we aren’t careful, the rats will set it off. When I tell you to stay back,  _ stay back.” _

Tom really wants to snap something mean back at Sco for all the fear he’s putting Tom through, but -- he just now notices -- Sco is trembling. It’s fine, so fine Tom almost misses it, but not much gets past Tom -- and once he notices it, Tom sees, suddenly, that Sco is absolutely terrified about something. He’s terrified and he is trying to keep it together, just like he usually does when they’re mucking around on the front line and something awful happens. 

And maybe Tom doesn’t believe a word Sco is saying right now, but -- it’s enough to make him feel ashamed at his own behavior. “Alright, mate,” he tries, finding the patience to stay neutral. He doesn’t believe Sco. But that doesn’t mean Tom has to snap at him over it.

Sco sighs, deep from the depths of his depressed (deranged) soul. “Alright then. Let’s go,” he says. There is real misery in how his shoulders slump. He doesn’t even bother unslinging his rifle, just follows the path of the trench like a walking target.

Well. Sco might not be so inclined, but Tom is going to make sure he is ready. He settles his rifle in his grip, steeling himself for whatever lies ahead. He hasn’t had to bayonet anyone yet, but in an enemy trench, it’s the most likely sort of combat they’ll have to resort to --

The comms trench is a dead end. Tom stops in his tracks, startled. Then, he sneaks a look at Sco. Is he having a go? 

Sco hesitates for the barest of moments, but he doesn’t look at Tom, and he makes no comment as he continues on.

Tom feels really unsettled, now, and not just because he’s scrambling to catch up again. This -- this is happening exactly like Sco said it would, but -- it must be a lucky guess. Or -- no, Sco knows enough to know when a General hasn’t any idea what’s going on; Sco must have read the truth of General Erinmore’s statements about the Germans being gone. Yes, that must be it. The comms trench being a dead end was just a coincidence -- maybe it was part of those aerials Erinmore showed them, and Tom just didn’t see it at the time.

Sco ducks into a dark opening. Tom sees the flicker of a torch that has just been turned on right as he follows, cursing his friend’s quickness under his breath. Tom could use a moment to to slow down, catch his breath, maybe drink some water -- 

It is a barracks. 

Completely unnerved, now, Tom skitters up close to Sco before he realises what he’s done. He’s acting like a spooked horse himself, and chides himself for it --

Sco throws an arm out and catches him in the chest. “Stay here,” he says, voice hushed. “There’s a tripwire in that room.”

Tom takes a deep breath to keep from shouting. Steadily, he raises his own torch and squints past Sco’s shoulder. “Are you sure? Doesn’t look like it to me,” he says, seeing nothing besides a dusty floor and some mysterious shapes protruding from the gloom that aren’t so easily illuminated.

“Please, just trust me. I’ve done this before.”

Tom, already anxious about everything that’s happened, loses his temper. He feels it snap like the rubber bands he shot at Joe in Father’s study when Father’s back was turned, but this time, instead of making Joe yelp or try his best not to, Tom wants  _ answers. _ And he wants to hurt.

“Look, Sco, can you please stop? You’re scaring me.” Shameful to admit, but it’s true -- and Tom knows it will hurt Sco all the greater for it. “I don’t know what’s going on in your head or  _ back home --” _ a shot in the dark, but Sco never really talks about home willingly, so Tom knows it’s a spot of  _ some _ tenderness -- “but just stop saying you’ve done this before! You haven’t. I need you to wake up.” He has to swallow down the lump in his throat and does it quickly, though it causes his hands to shake. “I need to rely on you.”

Or, maybe he’s just about to cry like a babe. Damn it.

Sco shakes his head. He looks like he doesn’t know what to do, mouth opening a little and closing again several times before he says “Just -- wait here.” Instead of, you know, addressing  _ any _ of Tom’s concerns, or the fact that Tom is  _ really upset right now. _

In Tom’s torchlight, Sco saws at hanging bags with increasingly frantic movements. Tom never catches a glimpse of Sco’s face, but the man is working with uncharacteristic violence. He looks like he’s going to lose it in there.

So Tom pulls himself together, wiping at his eyes and biting the inside of his cheek until he tastes copper. He goes in to help. He’s not sure why they need to cut the bags down, but he can help Sco with that much, so he starts on the ones that Sco hasn’t gotten to yet. 

Sco turns, sees him, and startles so badly he very nearly hits himself with his own rifle before freezing deathly still in his tracks.

“Whoa!” Tom says, equally startled by such a strong reaction. “It’s only me --”

“Get out!” Sco hisses. His voice is almost as shrill as Tom’s was back at the front line. “You can’t be in here!”

“I’m just helping you out!” Tom snaps, selecting a bag and starting to saw at the rope holding it up. For Chrissakes, is he not allowed to do that any more? Is Sco going to wipe his arse for him, too? 

He is tugged back by pressure around his throat. Sco, that  _ bloody wanker, _ has grabbed his tunic collar and is pulling him back. “You don’t understand, the two of us is enough to disturb the rats --”

One of them drops now, settling onto Tom’s shoulder as though it heard Sco’s words and understood them as the perfect cue to make an entrance. Tom lets out the most undignified sound and doesn’t even think before shaking it off. Its claws catch at the fabric of his uniform but then it flies off --

Sco is saying something that Tom’s mother would most certainly wash his mouth out for --

\-- and is drowned out by the roar of an explosion. 

When Tom is aware of himself again, there is pressure all over him. He sees nothing -- opening his eyes makes them burn and sting as chalk-dust floods into them. The fear from the last hour was nothing compared to the sheer horror that floods him now, and he  _ screams. _

He can’t even think anymore. Tom struggles -- he must free himself -- he screams and screams and screams, and his throat becomes choked and thick, and then he has a hard time breathing, too -- and then he just cries. He sees Sco’s terrified look when Tom started cutting down the bag and knows that it was because Sco was afraid of this -- somehow, he knew --

Tom isn’t sure what happens then, only that he is being shaken, hard. Someone is shouting at him. The weight that was holding him down is gone and he inhales sharply, gagging on the blockage in his throat and letting out another scream at the suffocating sensation --

\-- but then it’s gone and he can breath again, and he is being held by someone who rocks him back and forth, even as they both shake. Tom is so dazed and it is so soothing, he doesn’t immediately comprehend they aren’t out of danger yet.

There is a resounding cracking noise, like the strike of lightning crisping a young tree. Tom is seized by the urge to run, to get out of there, and realises he still cannot see. “Sco,” he says, terror overtaking him once more. “I can’t see! I can’t see!”

Sco drags him up bodily and hauls him close, nearly as close as when he was rocking Tom moments ago. “You hold on to me!” he yells in Tom’s ear, barely audible over the increasing thunder of dislodged earth.

It is nightmarish. Tom thought nothing could be worse than being buried alive, but now he is running blind through collapsing tunnels. As each chunk of tunnel ceiling hits his helmet, he is struck again with the knowledge that he can just as well be buried again -- and this time, he doesn’t think Sco would be able to pull him out -- 

He feels fresher air, the stir of a breeze that gets stronger, and it lends him new vigor. Tom runs, trusting Sco entirely, now, because at this point, that is all he’s got. 

He has the sudden sense of being in a much larger space. He can see sunlight through his eyelids. And he feels it as Sco throws him forward, wrapping himself around Tom like a blanket, putting his body between Tom and the screaming shriek of the collapsing tunnel being denied its meal. A shower of gravel and dust washes over them; and then, silence.

Tom shivers. He can’t see. He still can’t see. The fear of being blinded makes him feel faint in a way he’s never experienced. But Tom feels how badly Sco is trembling, even harder than Tom is, and he doesn’t want to say anything because he doesn’t know what that means, or why his friend is still holding him so tightly. 

But at last he must say it. “Sco -- I still --” his voice is shaking, damn everything -- “I still can’t see . . .”

Sco moves, then, letting up on his hold. It’s only when he starts talking to Tom gently that Tom realises Sco wasn’t the only one holding on tightly -- Tom’s hands are aching from their grasp of Sco’s sleeves. He lets Sco pry his hands loose. When they’ve separated, Tom feels an indefinable thrill race through him at how there is so much  _ air _ all around them.

When the water first hits his face, Tom flinches back -- but Sco speaks calmly, reassuring him until Tom realises it’s not the world falling on top of them again. He blinks as the dirt is washed away -- and he can see again. 

“Oh,” he says, immeasurably relieved. His friend’s anxious face is the best sight he’s ever seen. Tom almost starts to cry again from sheer thankfulness. “Thanks, Sco.”

Sco still looks troubled. He turns away, securing his canteen where it should hang at his side. Tom is grateful for the moment to steady himself, to resecure his composure and put himself back together.

Right. They are alive. They aren’t dead. He takes a huge breath and stands, doing his best to ignore how he wobbles up on his feet -- he can trust that Sco, at least, wouldn’t tease him about it the way Joe or some of the others in the 8th would. He’ll let Tom ignore it by ignoring it too. 

And they can  _ do this, _ Tom knows. Lightning never strikes the same spot twice, right? This  _ must _ be the worst of it; they can hardly run into worse luck than what they’ve already undergone. 

“I should have shot that damn rat,” Tom jokes, and manages to let out a small laugh. He hiccoughs a little and serenely acts as though he meant to do it while he holds out his hand to help Sco up.

Sco . . . twitches. He looks away. Tom sees his shoulders rise as he takes a great breath, just as Tom did, but instead of getting up he says, “No. We’ve done that before. That kills one of us.”

Tom feels the forced smile drop like a stone, his renewed cheer flattened with a rolled-up newspaper and swept out with the trash. He drops his arm. He is trying  _ so hard. _ And they’ve both just had a tunnel collapse on them -- Sco, why can’t you just  _ let up -- _

He bites his tongue until he tastes blood because he doesn’t want to say  _ that. _ “Oh,” he says instead. Tom can’t think of anything else that isn’t screaming profanity. And he owes Sco his life. “Er . . . Sco . . . “

Tom cannot meet Sco’s eyes when Sco looks at him; he is afraid that if he does so, he will lash out. He doesn’t want to see Sco’s heart break, again. Because, fine, yes! Sco paid better attention to the aerials, and - and he made some bloody good guesses, alright? And yeah, Sco’s got more experience going over No Man’s Land -- but  _ none of that _ proves that Sco’s done this exact same mission, with Tom, before. It’s not possible, no matter how much Sco knows about what they are doing right now. 

Sco laughs. It is so unlike him that Tom can’t help but look at him, and he sees that it’s a nasty laugh, one that has nothing to do with happiness. Sco brushes off Tom when Tom automatically reaches out with alarm, trying to offer some comfort.

“You still don’t believe me,” Sco says. The disbelief in his voice is painful. “After all that.”

Tom squirms. He knows that Sco cannot be right, but guilt is still clawing nastily through his belly right now. 

“Look, Sco,” he says. He’ll try for placating again, because he can’t promise Sco that Tom believes, because Tom  _ doesn’t. _ “It’s just bloody hard to believe, all right? I do trust you, and I think you believe what you’re saying -- it’s just --” and Tom can’t find the right words, he’s running out of not-terrible things to say -- “It’s just hard to believe, that’s all,” he settles on saying. He feels his shoulders sag as he looks at his friend and sees that -- yes, each word is like a new blow. He cringes. “Please don’t be angry with me.” 

Sco is silent for a long, long time. Tom grows restless, but he doesn’t dare fidget too hard. He doesn’t know what he is waiting for, but he’s afraid of whatever it will be.

“Alright,” Sco says at last. “Alright.” He holds out his hand for Tom to take to pull him up and Tom feels so relieved he hauls Sco up harder than he intended. His hand slips a little --

Sco’s hands are  _ ripped to shreds. _

Tom can’t help the startled exclamation. “Your hands!” he cries, seeing all the blood, and then realises how Sco must’ve got them. “You were digging to get me out?”

And this is the man he doesn’t believe, the man who Tom cannot believe. Tom nearly chokes at the overwhelming and conflicting -- everything. 

“It doesn’t hurt,” Sco says shortly, pulling them out of Tom’s grasp.

Planes roar overhead -- Tom jumps a little at the fright. He feels his heart race as he looks up at them.

“We’ve got to move,” Sco says suddenly, projecting urgency in both his tone and in how tense he suddenly is. He holds his hand out. “Give me the flare!”

Stunned, Tom feels around for it, pulling it out quickly when he remembers what pocket it and the cartridges are in. Sco snatches them both from Tom’s grip and fumbles loading the gun, blood making his fingers slip repeatedly. He swears, again, but then the cartridge clicks in and Sco swings it up and fires it in one smooth movement. 

He drops it and reaches for Tom, clamping down on Tom’s wrist and wrenching him forward. “Why are we running -- Sco?” Tom asks, bewildered. “Sco!” And Tom is pulled into Sco’s sprint and he has no time for more than the briefest of glances at the shattered gun-barrels as they run through the abandoned guns and decaying bodies and mouldering sandbags, running further still up the slope at the back, the one that leads to a ridge with trees. 

Tom is gasping. “Sco, slow down -- I can’t keep up --” he wheezes. There is still too much dust in his throat. It makes it harder to breathe already as if they weren’t trying to outrun a train, too -- “Sco -- SCO!”

Tom slams into Sco, who has had the audacity to  _ fucking stop in his tracks for some bloody reason. _ He whirls on Tom, face set in sheer bloody-mindedness. 

“Sco -- please --” Tom starts to say, but Sco cuts him off.

“There is a pail of fresh milk in the barn in the farm ahead,” he says, feverishly, eyes alight with some unnameable ferocity. “There is a baby girl in Écoust who will die without it. A plane is going to crash into that barn and destroy it if we don’t get there first. So for the love of all that’s holy, Blake,  _ just effing run with me!” _

Tom . . . Tom doesn’t have anything to answer to that. But the desperation is real. So when Sco pulls him forward again, Tom goes with it -- though by the time they reach the top of the ridge, Tom is ready to give up. 

At the top of the ridge, Tom sees that below them, there is a farm. 

And something in Tom  _ leaps. _ Suddenly, he is swept up into Sco’s fervor. He throws himself down the hill, not even hesitating as he jumps over the knocked-down fence of a cherry orchard. They dodge between the dying trees and sprint for the farm buildings: the house and the barn beside a muddy yard, just past a pond. Sco staggers, tripping over God knows what, and that’s how Tom overtakes him, using his momentum to wrench Sco up when he catches Sco’s webbing just before he lands full out in the grass --

Tom can hear the planes again, and gunfire. He doesn’t dare look up to see what it is as they pelt through the farmyard. Sco drops and does this truly fantastic slide, landing unerringly next to a lone, covered pail in the barn, and Tom  _ gapes  _ as Sco hastily tips the pail to pour its contents into his canteen -- he wasn’t lying, it  _ is _ milk --

Sco slams the cork stopper home and stands in the same moment. He runs for Tom and tackles him to the ground just as Tom notices the plane, trailing smoke, heading straight for the --

There is an almighty crash. Tom shuts his eyes just in time -- a blast of heat and a shower of debris pass over them.

Sco hauls Tom up and starts pulling, as though he wants Tom to move back, but then Tom sees the wrecked plane. The barn is catching fire now, and the pilot is screaming -- pleading for help. “Sco, the pilot is still alive,” he says. They should help him --

Sco goes truly mad. “NO!” he screams, and thrashes wildly, shoving Tom back onto the ground. “NO -- BLAKE -- GET AWAY --”

It’s terrifying, his behavior. All of this is absolutely terrifying, and now Tom is thoroughly terrified and he hates this, he hates this so much! “Let me go!” Tom says, fighting against Sco’s grip purely on instinct. “We’ve got to help -- he’s burning alive, Sco!”

Sco only becomes more frenzied at this. He keeps shoving Tom down, trying to hold him there, and Tom sees the sheer panic on Sco’s face and the tears that are streaming down his face as Sco screams some shite about the plane and explosions, and Tom feels a numbing stillness settle over him. 

This isn’t his friend. This is someone else. 

He shoves against Schofield’s grip, well and truly angry now. Sco might be taller than Tom, but Tom grew up tussling with Joe every day of his life and he knows a few things himself. “He’s German, but he’s still human, Sco!” Tom snarls, leveraging himself free. “Let me go, you heartless bastard --”

A second explosion slams into both of them. It sends Sco flying; Tom thinks he hears some horrible snapping noises that sound uncomfortably like bone, but he can’t tell right away, because he is thrown into a tumbling roll backward, down the farmyard’s slope. 

He lies where he stops, dazed. It takes him a while to realise he’s still alive.

Swiftly, following on the heels of that realisation, there is only one thought in his head: Sco was right. Sco said the plane would explode  _ and he was right. _

Just like  _ everything else -- _

Then Tom hears a scream of pure agony. He scrambles up, disoriented. It couldn’t be the pilot, the pilot can’t have survived that -- which  _ means -- _

Oh, no. Oh God, oh no, oh God no oh God.  _ Sco. _

Sco is lying in the dirt, face-down, mouth open in a horrid, soundless scream. His arm -- his arm is -- and there’s blood, blood coming out of his mouth --

Tom pulls his friend’s head clear of the ground, cradling it in the crook of his elbow. “Breathe,” he chants raggedly, doing his best to be gentle as he tries to roll Sco onto his back, “just breathe -- oh, God. Oh, God, I’m so sorry, Sco, I’m sorry, I’m sorry -- you were right, I should’ve believed you, why didn’t I believe you? Oh, God --”

Tom is crying. Sco isn’t unconscious, but his eyes are closed, his face screwed up with pain -- pain so excruciating he can’t even respond to Tom’s apologies or pleas or questions. And Tom has to just sit there and realise that they are doomed. Sco cannot possibly go further -- hell, he’s probably dying -- and Tom cannot possibly leave him, not like this. 

At some point, Sco’s eyes crack open. He doesn’t focus well at first, but then he looks up and sees Tom. The relief that crosses Sco’s face upon seeing him is almost more than Tom can bear. 

“Sco?” he asks, dreading the answer.

Sco tries to say something -- but he can’t. He wheezes, then whimpers, and Tom notices for the first time that there is something wrong with Sco’s chest: the lines of it aren’t -- aren’t right --

Tom is an absolute  _ twat. _

“You alright, mate?”

Tom twitches, but remembers not to jerk at the last moment and turns as smoothly as he can. It’s two of theirs, from some unfamiliar regiment -- he doesn’t recognise their badges --

“Help him,” he blurts, desperately. “Please, he’s hurt --”

An officer appears. “Let me through,” he orders from behind the two men, and comes over to Tom and Sco. Tom counts three stars on the man’s cuffs and feels an instinctive fear at having drawn the attention of a Captain -- but no, Tom isn’t in trouble this time. The Captain kneels next to them, taking in the situation with a glance; he puts a comforting hand on Sco’s forehead. “Private,” he says quietly to one of the men, “go fetch a medic.”

Then he turns to Tom. “What happened, Lance Corporal?” 

Tom tries to explain, but even to him it all sounds garbled. He’s crying again; he didn’t know he had that much water left in him. He feels lightheaded, trying to explain about the dogfight and the downed plane and the pilot who died, screaming, burning to death until his plane exploded and then  _ Sco _ was the one dying slowly, crushed by the blast --

“Hush now, he’ll be alright,” the Captain cuts him off, gentling the command to take the harshness out of it.

Stopped by the Captain, Tom comes back to his senses and realises he was about to babble about how Sco had warned him and warned him and it had all come true because Sco had done all this before, and it was Tom’s fault for not listening -- and he really would sound mad if he started talking like that, he knows he would. He’d thought Sco was mad, too.

So Tom reins it all in. He’s seen Sco do this too many times to count, and Joe, too, when they were growing up; Tom pulls in all his fear and guilt and worry and crunches. It.  _ Down. _ Down, stuffed and stomped on until it’s taking up the smallest amount of space in his head. So that he can think.

“We’ll get his ribs wrapped up and his arm splinted, and send you back with him over No Man’s Land. We’ve cleaned the Huns since Bapaume, it should be a clear run back,” the Captain is saying reassuringly.

Sco stirs in Tom’s arms. “No,” Sco whispers. “We’ve --” But he cuts off; he can’t get the words out. He is shaking and his teeth are chattering too much.

Tom sees the worry in the Captain’s face before he hides it in a reassuring smile that he directs at Sco, returning his hand to Sco’s forehead. “Relax, son,” he soothes. “You’re in shock.”

Tom also sees that this isn’t deterring Sco in the slightest, so he picks up on Sco’s cue. “We can’t go back, Sir,” he says to the Captain, firmly. If he says it firmly enough it will happen, he thinks wildly. “We’ve got an urgent message for the 2nd Devons, past Écoust. Orders to stop tomorrow morning’s attack. It’s a trap, Sir -- sixteen hundred men.”

In his arms, Sco relaxes minutely. It’s not easy to tell, what with all his shivering, but -- Tom can feel it; he knows. 

The Captain withdraws his hand after a moment of thought. “We’re passing through Écoust,” he says to Tom. “We can take you some of the way -- but this one should go back. We’ll just have to send someone else to go back with him.”

Sco speaks up again, a new tension thrumming through him -- it makes his shaking worse. “No. I can make it, Sir, I’m alright,” he protests. The Captain looks at him, and then at Tom, polite disbelief etched in his face, but Tom can’t meet his eyes. Tom feels shame burn through him. Here he is, unable to go forward, but Sco -- even with, with many -- many broken bones -- and in incredible pain -- Sco is willing to keep going. 

In the absence of any response, Sco is agitated, now. “I’ve got to go Sir --”

“Sir, he’s got to come with me,” Tom interrupts, mimicking the tone his father uses on his mother when Mother is in one of her moods. Calm -- but unshakeable. “He knows the way. He’s -- um, been through Écoust before, Sir --” but why would that be the case -- inspiration strikes. “Headquarters intelligence. I won’t make it through without him.”

Sco stills in Tom’s grasp. Tom feels it when Sco finds his hand and squeezes, tentatively, but he dares not look at his friend -- he’s too busy doing his damned best at being earnest, grim, and persuasive all at the same time while he stares the Captain down. 

He does squeeze back, though.

Sco makes some sort of noise -- part-way between a sob and a whimper -- and that breaks the tension between Tom and the Captain, who looks away to make a commiserating noise that seems to soothe Sco. He sags in Tom’s hold, anyway.

“Out of the way, please.” A new man has come up, tired-looking but with a spine of steel. He has a medic’s bag and sets it down as the Captain makes way for him, explaining both what happened to Sco (more succinctly than Tom managed) and also how Sco needed to be mobile, if at all possible. The medic nods his understanding, and gets to work setting Sco to rights -- as much as can be made right, anyway.

The whole ordeal is awful. Sco is nearly out of his mind from the pain. Each ragged gasp and choked scream he lets out as the medic prods him and then gets his ribs and arm wrapped up causes Tom to flinch, because he knows every bit of it is his fault. And at the end of it all? Sco bloody  _ thanks _ the medic, polite as can be, even through gritted teeth and glazed eyes.

It softens the medic, too, unfortunately. The man grimaces at Sco’s condition and tells the Captain, “I can’t recommend that he continues up to Écoust. Ribs are broken -- it will be hard for him to breathe. That elbow  _ isn’t _ broken -- but I think something’s torn inside the joint. He won’t be able to shoot a rifle without doing himself more harm.”

Sco focuses at these words. Ponderously, he forces himself into standing, leaning heavily on Tom’s shoulder as he goes. Tom follows quickly, hovering in giddy horror. 

“I’m alright, Sir,” Sco lies once he is upright. He doesn’t even do it well, and Tom knows he’s not helping, but he can’t stand to see Sco sway all alone. He wraps his arm around his friend, careful of his ribs, just to help steady Sco.

The Captain doesn’t buy it for a minute, and rightly so. “No, son, you’re not. You should go back.” Seeing that his professional opinion is also going to be disregarded by Sco, though, the Captain tries a different tack, and his tone changes to a deceptive softness: “I could make it an order.”

Tom almost wishes he would. His heart is in his throat; Sco looks like death. 

But Sco looks like he would rather die, anyway. A fearful sort of reckless determination passes over his face, but his voice is as steady as it can be as he says, “Please Sir. I have a mission to finish. Orders from Headquarters, Sir.”

\--Tom doesn’t know how Sco does it. But it convinces the Captain, who sighs in defeat. “Very well,” he says, mouth down-turned unhappily. “Come. You can both ride in the casuals truck.”

Tom does his best to support Sco as they walk -- Sco seems to have lost his ability to balance, slipping on the muddy grass, so Tom fits himself under Sco’s good arm and, mindful of Sco’s ribs, carefully levers himself in a position where he can take some of Sco’s weight himself. 

“Sco,” he whispers, unable to keep quiet any longer. “Sco -- I’m sorry. It’s my fault you’re hurt like this --” he stops, then forces himself on. “I didn’t listen, and now you’re -- you’re in pain, and it’s all my fault -- I should have believed you, and. I’m just -- so, so sorry --”

Sco interrupts. “-- Later, Blake, please,” he says, voice strained. Tom flinches at the rebuke, knowing he deserves it, and stays quiet all through the Captain persuading the Colonel to let them catch a ride and Tom and the Captain walking Sco to the lorry at the end of the convoy. 

Sco stops and sways. He is focused grimly on the step up, Tom sees, when he looks at his friend. The Captain catches his eye.  _ We’re going to have to get him up, _ he seems to say with one meaningful look,  _ damned stubborn arse. _

(Okay, maybe not that last part. That was more of what Tom thinks he was saying back.)

Carefully, he and the Captain hoist Sco up. He gasps with pain. “Someone catch him!” Tom shouts, alarmed, as Sco takes the step up and then topples forward. 

A Sepoy -- Tom is diverted for the briefest of moments. He’s never seen a Sepoy before, is that really what they look like? -- manages to catch Sco, somehow deducing that Sco’s shoulders are the safest bet for guiding him to sit on the bench. Tom scrambles up after, hastily fitting himself up against Sco’s uninjured side. The man next to him grumbles as he winds up half in the other soldier’s lap, and edges into the bucktoothed Private at the end to make more space.

“Thanks, mate,” Tom tells the Sepoy fervently. The Sepoy nods.

“It’ll be a tight squeeze. Don’t jostle him -- medic’s orders,” the Captain says. And even if the men around them only mumble assent, Tom gets the sense that this is the kind of Captain who isn’t loathed by the men under his command; they’ll try, at least, to follow his second-hand command. 

Sort of. Tom looks the lot of them over discreetly to gauge their mood, and he revises his estimation to: at the least, they won’t actively go against it. 

The Captain catches his eye. “You look after him, lad,” he says to Tom when Tom looks at him.

“Yes, Sir,” Tom says. He feels the command settle into his soul, fitting there neatly. It’s an order, a judgment passed -- a condemnation and an absolution all at once. Tom still feels like a massive fuckup, but with this? With this, he can move forward.

Still, the forgiveness Tom really needs -- that of the person who doesn’t owe him shite, at this point, and  _ bloody hell _ if Tom is not agonisingly and acutely aware of this -- that has yet to be granted. Tom turns his attention to Sco and ignores the men’s chatter as the truck starts up and gets moving. 

Never before has Tom been so aware of the perils of an unpaved road. With each bump and jostle, Sco gets whiter and whiter. His fringe is damp with sweat, sticking to his forehead in fanciful curlicues that are moved only by the deepening frown of concentrated pain as he tips his head back, eyes closed. 

Tom can’t stand it. Sco wouldn’t accept his apology outside the lorry, but maybe -- maybe offering some comfort will ease -- ease both of them. A little. Maybe. 

Tentatively (and gently, as gently as he can make it), he feels his way into tipping Sco’s helmet to one side. Sco hasn’t any injuries to his head besides the obvious lack of sanity -- wait, that’s not funny anymore . . . --Anyway, Tom doesn’t need to worry about bumping any injuries, but he does need to worry about Sco’s ribs as he guides Sco into leaning against Tom’s shoulder. Sco really needs to sit as straight as possible with those ribs, and Tom is shorter overall -- but he sits up as tall as he can and makes it work, contorting himself halfway round so that Sco is really just leaning all along Tom, forehead nudging against Tom’s jaw.

He feels Sco relax, and breathes a sigh of relief -- right as the lorry jostles again. The man on the other side of Sco bangs up against Sco’s bad elbow.

Tom hears the hoarse exhalation, feels the abrupt and agonised tensing in Sco when Sco screams -- or tries to. Sco lurches away from Tom and curls over his arm, mouth gaping open as he gasps from the pain. 

It throws Tom into hysterics. “Oi!” he shouts at the man. “Watch it, will you?! He’s in enough pain without an ass like you making it worse, didn’t you hear the Captain say --”

Sco manages to find and squeeze Tom’s knee haphazardly, and Tom cuts off to hear him. “It’s alright, Blake,” Sco wheezes faintly to his feet.

Tom sees as the Private glances over before taking a second, harder look at Sco -- and when he looks just as horrified as Tom feels as he says “Really am sorry, mate,” it eases Tom’s ire. Doesn’t make him feel any less awful, though.

Shaken, Tom helps Sco to sit back up and lean against Tom again. Incrementally, Sco relaxes, until he’s mostly cushioned from the rough ride through Tom. 

Tom notices that Sco’s hands are still bloody: skin shredded and torn, nails ripped from where he’d -- presumably -- dug through the rubble that had buried Tom in the collapsing tunnel. Tom beats back the memories of choking and airlessness and terror and fumbles for the field dressing in his pocket.

“Has anyone got any scissors?” he asks. He can’t fix Sco’s ribs, nor Sco’s elbow -- and it’s a testament to how awful those injuries were that the medic didn’t even look twice at the state of Sco’s hands -- but Tom can bandage Sco’s fingers.

It is the Sepoy who comes to Tom’s aid, again, coming down the aisle and pulling out a tiny medical tin as he goes. He reveals a small pair of bandage scissors hidden away inside and, wordlessly, begins cutting the roll of bandage into thin strips suitable for bandaging Sco’s fingers.

Tom eases Sco to the side -- he apologises as Sco grunts a little at the jostle, and in other circumstances it would be amusing how sleepy the older man seemed, but now it’s worrying -- in order to pull out his canteen. He bathes each finger, gingerly working away the dried blood and mud and other, unnameable detritus that stains Sco’s hands. 

“You’re getting your boots all wet,” Sco slurs into Tom’s neck.

“I don’t mind,” Tom says firmly. He hopes he banishes any of Sco’s doubts with it.

Carefully, Tom bandages each of Sco’s fingers that will need mending.  _ I’m sorry, _ he thinks with each one. He despairs at being able to ever adequately apologise to Sco in any capacity -- who even knows if Sco will survive his wounds with the shape he’s in? -- no, Tom can’t think that right now, or he won’t be able to keep it together. He shoves that thought away and focuses on being as gentle as he can.

“Thanks, Blake,” Sco murmurs as Tom finishes, head lolling against his shoulder. Tom smiles with relief; it seems his apology is accepted.

The truck lurches violently. Desperately, Tom grabs at the frame the canvas cover is tied to, as well as the shoulder of the man who bumped Sco so badly before, and does his best to ease the shock for Sco. Sco, he sees, has still bitten clean through his lip, face blanching out to chalkiness once more as sweat springs out against his forehead. 

Tom swears steadily in his head, but bites it back from actually coming out. “The wheel’s stuck,” he says, seeing at a glance that there is serious work to do. “We’ve all got to get out.” But he stays, propping up Sco until Sco’s eyes are properly focusing again, before he extracts himself as well. “You stay inside,” he orders his friend.

“You’ll never get it going with me inside --” Sco protests.

The man who Tom grabbed at -- Rossi -- takes one look at Sco and disagrees vehemently. “Just effing stay inside the effing truck, mate. Ain’t going to help anyone trying to play the hero.”

Sco goes a little pink -- which is to say, he looks significantly less pale than he did a moment ago -- and, mercifully, gives it up. 

Tom and the other men get into a debate about how best to move the wheel. The one with the buckteeth -- Cooke -- thinks they should get wooden boards to put under the wheels. Another one -- Butler -- thinks they should just try reversing, first, and most of the others agree with him. When that fails to produce any results, though, Tom finds that he looks to Sco -- 

“Are we going to have to lift it?” he asks.

Sco’s mouth twitches in rueful amusement. “Yes,” he says, almost smiling.

“Right, lads,” Tom says to the others, fatalistic. “Let’s try lifting it -- we haven’t the time to get any wooden boards out here.”

“Yeah, Cooke, stop slowing us down,” Malky jokes.

“Oi!” Cooke takes offense to this. “Fuck off --”

Jondolar, the Sepoy, redirects Cooke’s attention to helping them heave the truck free.

“On three!” Tom shouts. “One, two, three!” The truck gives a little, but settles back into the rut before long. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Tom sees Sco shift, looking uncomfortable. “I should come off --” he starts to say.

“Stay where you are, Sco!” Tom snaps, cutting him off sharply. He sees Sco’s surprised blink and -- wow, yeah, maybe that wasn’t the right tone. But Sco  _ needs _ to stay sitting -- him moving is  _ not going to help. _ Tom rounds on the other men instead. “We can do this, come on!” he urges them, and can’t help feeling disheartened when they grumble and make a half-hearted attempt that, again, gets them nowhere.

“Blake --” he hears Sco say.

“One last time,” Tom says, and this time, he sees the change. He’s no longer coaxing them -- he’s flat-out ordering them, and they see what he has at stake with the way Sco is trying to stand up, face white and waxy. They know that he will  _ not _ accept their half-assed behavior anymore. “Together! One, two, three --”

It works. Absurdly, the men are cheered -- some even clap him on the back. Tom waits for the soaring high spirits of a job well done, but it never comes -- all he can think about is how badly he’s treated Sco over the last several hours, how Tom has gotten them into this mess. He scrubs at his eyes and sniffs back hard to keep from an unseemly dripping nose, praying no one notices either of these things.

Sco notices, of course. But he doesn’t say anything about it. Tom feels a wave of guilty relief crush him -- he doesn’t deserve a friend like Sco.

“You and your mate, shift up here,” the Sepoy says to Tom as he starts to sit down. The Sepoy motions them towards the back of the bed of the lorry, up against the cabin -- the ride is always the smoothest, there, because the driver is right in front of it and usually works to minimize their own discomfort. “He shouldn’t be sitting over the rear wheel.”

“Thank you,” Sco says, too hoarse to be anything but grateful. Tom feels like shite all over again for not insisting on the better position from the beginning.

They sit. Tom stews in his guilt. But -- without Tom nudging him into it, Sco eases himself into Tom’s space. He’s all slow gravity and inevitable adjustment, until he’s fitted comfortably back up against Tom. When Sco relaxes against him again, Tom closes his eyes and lets out the breath he holds all through it (as though if he’d breathed, he’d have scared Sco away or something) and prays no one notices the leakiness at the corners of his eyes. 

“So what’s happened to him, then?”

Tom freezes. What does he say? He explained to the Captain, a little, but --

“I -- there was --” He stutters and stumbles. Back home, he’d get a thorough caning for the lack of elocution; he tries again. “I didn’t --”

Sco clears his throat, drawing everyone’s attention. He doesn’t move from his position as he rasps, “There was a plane. With an effing Hun in it. It exploded,” into Tom’s collar. “That’s all,” Sco adds, almost as an afterthought.

And wonder of wonders, it is enough. “Bad luck, mate,” Malky says from the front, echoed by Rossi and (somewhat less gracefully) Cooke.

“You didn’t mention how it was my fault, Sco,” Tom whispers into Sco’s hair. To his shame he feels his tears become heavy enough to gain weight and drip right off his face.

Sco -- bizarrely -- eases even further, though Tom is certain Sco can feel his tears leaking all over Sco’s head. And he feels it, too, as Sco taps gently against Tom’s tunic with his good hand, soothing Tom even in the middle of his own unutterable hell.

“It’s alright, Blake,” he says wearily. Tom feels it more than hears it as Sco’s breath ghosts into the opening of his tunic and across his collarbones. “I’m not angry at you. I’m just glad you’re alive.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to WafflesRisa, she who is the best little sister <3 I'm so glad we've met!!! I hope this does your work justice and, also, that I got Tom's voice right. It's the worst day of his life but by gosh, does he try. 
> 
> Title credit belongs to the glorious Pavuvu! Best idea, best spouse, best deity *u*
> 
> If you're here because you're normally reading _[between the crosses](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1656289)_ , the next work will be up within a week! It's got 6k and we're still plugging away at it -- it's not half-finished, yet! So. I just got all side-tracked, tormenting another Blake.
> 
> @lizofalltrades on tumblr, xoxo!


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